


Pouring Sugar on the Chess Board

by Rogueangelll



Series: Not a Slave (Lams) [3]
Category: American Revolution RPF, Hamilton - Miranda, Historical RPF
Genre: Depression, Honesty and communication, M/M, Mental Illness, NSFW, One-Shot, Roaring 20s, Sad, Slavery, Vanilla, exploring masculinity, if the civil war failed to stop slavery, intimate sex, self deprecation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-09
Updated: 2019-05-09
Packaged: 2020-02-28 21:12:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18764335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rogueangelll/pseuds/Rogueangelll
Summary: “His Maid” but reversed.  Hamilton is a slave, bought by John Laurens.This is totally separate from the other books in this series, it’s just a “What if?” one-shot honestly.  However, the traumatic experiences that shaped who they were in the original book remains mostly the same.Welcome to my personal hell.





	Pouring Sugar on the Chess Board

I bit my lip.  Nothing could be worse than this.  Half-nude, displayed liked cattle.  I supposed that I deserved it, but, it felt horrid.  I could only stare at nothing in the distance.  I was fully aware that I was zoned out but felt so numb that there was not use in zoning back in.  Not as if I would miss anything.  I could be bought or not, neither of which appealed to me.  I'm not anything more than property.  I could be tossed around like a doll and it wouldn't make a difference to me at this point.

"Bid begins at $350.  How much you want for him?"  a voice, gruff, asked.  I tuned into the conversation, realizing that it was the auctioneer next to me who was speaking.

"Five-thousand dollars," said another man.  "That is sure to have the highest for a man such as him, right?"

"I'm sure it will.  He'll be cleaned up and brought to your car, Mr. Laurens."

Laurens.  I blinked several times and yanked myself back to reality.  Fucking hell.  John Laurens, I knew the name, of course.  It had come up several times before when I was...

"Thank you kindly, Sir," Laurens glanced at me, tipping his hat slightly forward at me and smiling.  I couldn't help but stare as he walked away.

"You're a lucky bloke," the Auctioneer said to me.  He took in a huff of his cigar and blew back out, smoke blowing into my face.  I flinched but said nothing.  "Getting bought on your first month 'ere, and all.  Especially by a rich bastard like—" he began to cough nastily in the middle of his sentence, "—John Laurens."

I remained silent.

"You mute, boy?"

I continued to stare at the floor in lieu of an intelligent response.

• • •

After they wiped my face and body with damp rags and dressed me, the company's men led me outside.  With a hand on my back I was pushed toward a running, dark blue automobile and made to sit in the back seat.  I expected to be in there alone, but to my left was John Laurens, stoic as a statue as he stared ahead.  When the door slammed, John told the driver to "get a move on".  I felt my breath hitch and I glanced out my window.  John closed the divider between the front seat and the back, then leaned backward into the seat.  

"Evening," John said slowly, not even sparing me a glance.

"Evening, Sir," I mumbled.  

"I'm John Laurens.  I assume you already know that, though, of course."

"I do."

"And what is your name?"  he asked, finally looking at me.  

"Alexander."  I paused.  "Hamilton."

"Hamilton.  Haven't heard that surname in quite some time.  Not in Carolina, at least."

I nodded.  

John continued to look at me.  I forced myself to keep my eyes forward, feeling his gaze burn my head.  "If you don't mind my asking, where do you live, Sir?"

"Not far, by my word," he said, "in state, several towns over.  But, not in the city."

I said nothing.  I wanted to ask why but couldn't bring myself to do so.

He breathed out a bit and looked away.  "Might I ask what your crime was?"

I let out a short noise.  "I didn't suppose you'd want to know, Mr. Laurens."

"I do."

"I don't..." I trailed off.  "It was three years ago, and I, uh... I was arrested for..."  When I couldn't get the words out right, John spoke instead.

"Never mind it.  If you won't tell me, that's fine.  But now I must ask— three years is a long time.  You've been bought before?"  he asked.

"Yes, Sir."

"Why whom?"

"It doesn't matter too much, does it?"

"I suppose not.  Why were you resold?"

"I... I don't know," I lied.

• • •

John showed me around the estate.  At the back of the house was one large area (divided into two main housing units) for the male and female slaves.  I had to admit, it was much cozier than Jefferson's estate.  Quite a bit less slaves, too, there only being about two women and five men.  Perhaps that's why John bought me— he truly did need more workers.  I believe men such as Jefferson bought slaves unnecessarily.  

"These are my indoor staff.  Theodosia, Martha," John introduced them to me, "and the third is somewhere else, no doubt cleaning.  His name is Lee.  If he gives you any trouble, tell me right away, and I'll have him work back outside."

Martha just frowned.  I watched as Theodosia, who was slightly taller and older looking, burned herself on the edge of a hot bread pan and yelped.  Martha quickly went to tend to her.

"Run cold water over it.  Does it look bad?" John asked.  

"Just grazed it," Theodosia whispered, "thank you, Sir."

"Okay..." John, eyebrows knitted together with concern, forced himself away and said to me, "All right, I'll show you your work and then to your housing."

"Yes, Sir."

He raised his eyebrow and motioned for me to follow. I did. I walked behind him, sure to pick up my feet. He showed me down the hallway and into a room. It was large, had bed made of a dark wood with velvety blue blankets. John motioned for me to follow him into some sort of large, walk-in closet. I stood there with my hands folded as he rummaged through some things, all of which folded neatly and in bins labeled various things. I didn't care enough to read the cursive labels.

"Ah, here we go. These look about your size." John handed me a black pair of pants, black waistcoat, and white dress shirt. "Do you want a hair tie?"

"That would be nice, thank you, Sir."

John then rummaged and gave me several black ribbons. "Go into the bathroom, change and see if it fits well."

"Yes, Sir.  Where is the bathroom?"

John gave me yet another strange look and pointed to a door on the other side of the room. I nodded and walked over hastily. My whole body felt numb, used, and above all else, weak. I closed the door slowly and locked it. It was an impulse. Then, I stripped and changed. The clothes did fit. They even felt comfortable and nice. A soft material. Thin enough that I don't die of heatstroke. I pulled my hair back into a tight ponytail with the ribbon. Then, I unlocked the door and stepped out of the bathroom. John clapped his hands together and stood up from where he leaned against the wall.

"It fits," I reported. 

"That's good. I'll get you several more outfits like that. Those your old clothes?" he asked, pointing to the wad of clothing in my hands. I nodded and he took them from me, walking them down the hall. I stayed still before he came back into the room without the clothes. John asked, "Why didn't you follow me?"

"You didn't tell me to follow you, Sir," I cut myself off and stared, realizing what I had said. "—I'm sorry, Sir. With all due respect, I didn't know that you wanted me to follow you."

"I know I didn't tell you to, I just assumed you would. And telling me so is not disrespectful. Whatever is the matter with you?"

"Pardon me, Sir?"

"Stop calling me that. What is wrong? Why do you act like this?"

"Sir—" I quickly stopped myself, "Act like...? How— how would you like me to act?"

"The opposite of however you're being. It's nearly infuriating." John had a slightly gravelly tone at the end as his eyes burned into mine. I tried to force myself to look away but couldn't achieve even that. "Stop acting as if... as if I'm going to hurt you. —Because I won't."

"Yes..." I trailed off, deliberately dropping the "Sir". I pulled my eyes back away from John's.

• • •

"Mr. Laurens certainly is a character," chuckled a woman— Theodosia— who was kneading dough for bread.  I stared at her curiously.  

"How so?"

"Oh, come on, now.  He's... aloof, to say the least.  Curious, curious.  Hardly know anything about the man.  Charismatic, yet ill-tempered.  Humble, yet smug.  Handsome, yet... he has no Beauty to his Beast."

"You think he is handsome?"

"What, do you not?  Perhaps as a man yourself, you cannot appreciate the masculine beauty of a man such as John Laurens," she paused and cocked her head, "but any blind old fool could hear by his voice that he is one of the most attractive specimens in America."

I nodded slowly.  "So, you have a bias to him?"

"No, no!  Not at all.  He is not my type anyway.  My heart belongs to another, I am afraid.  Besides, he is our master, and I have no intentions of dabbling in that business," Theodosia reasoned.  I nodded again, slower this time.  "How about you, Mr. Hamilton?  Any relationships on the outside?"

I froze.  After several moments I just said, coldly, "No."  It was bitter and harsh but I could not control my tone, nor the memories attached to the question.  Theodosia, now put off, just furrowed her brows and continued to kneed the dough herself.  I sighed and leaned against the counter.  I've been here for nearly a month and there's been no troubles with John.  He's been nothing but kind this whole time which is a relief.  I wouldn't be able to stand it if something were to happen.  After Jefferson, I prayed to a god that I didn't believe in to bail me out.  

But I deserved it for what I did.  How I got here makes me no better than him.  

At the very least, I could only hope that Sally was safe.  

"Alexander, could you come here?"

I looked up suddenly and saw John between the French doors of the kitchen.  He motioned me over so I bid Theodosia goodbye and followed him out of the kitchen.  We walked through the foyer.  "What do you need, Mr. Laurens?"

John breathed very loudly and continued to walk.  "I want you to help me with something."

"What would that be?"

"I'm building, a... closet. I need your help."

"Might I ask why, Sir?" I stammered when I realized what I had said, then corrected it quickly, "Uh, sorry, might I ask why?"

"Why I am building a closet?"

"No. Well, yes, maybe, but I am asking why you are asking me in specific, as opposed to other workers who are more fit, or..."

John, who appeared as though he was taken off guard, said, "Because I like you better."

"I thought you didn't because of how I act," I said, then realized it sounded sarcastic and snappy. "Apologies, sometimes a little bit of my old mouth slips out and I am rude."

"No, it's fine. It's funny, I like it."

I didn't know what to say after that. I stayed silent.  

John laughed charismatically.  "You're an enigma, Alexander.  It's intriguing.  Other slaves are more dull.  I'd much rather work with you than anybody else."

"Oh.  Thank you, Sir..."

"What's the matter?"

I fidgeted at the question. "Nothing is the matter."

John just nodded slowly at that. He picked up a smile again. "Well, then, let's get to it. Run out to the shed and grab the toolbox, will you?  It's red, should be under the workbench.  I'd imagine it wouldn't be difficult to find."

"Yes, S—okay."

"Thank you."

I turned on my heel and moved swiftly out of the room; as soon as I turned the corner I inhaled. John was really, really nice. Way too nice. I didn't need a repeat of living situations with my deed holder— but then again, was Jefferson ever that nice?  Or was he just pretending the whole time?

Most likely.  Nobody could ever want me.  John is just pretending, too.

I found the toolbox and brought it back upstairs to where John was rolling up his white sleeves.  I noticed he was wearing different pants and his shirt was untucked.  He had taken off his shoes, too.  I felt my face heat, almost embarrassed that I was seeing him so informal without a waistcoat or jacket.  

"Alex, you're back," John grinned.  "Excuse my informality, I didn't want to get anything on my clothes.  Like... paint."

I glanced to the bedroom wall, where there was a hole.  I didn't say anything about it.  It looked like he had punched it.

"How does one build a closet?" I asked.

"Uh... I suppose we'll just have to find out, won't we?"

I sort of laughed.  "Uh, okay."

"Right, then. Let's get started by tearing down this wall, shall we?" He looked through the toolbox then handed me a mallet. "Okay, I'm trusting you with this. Don't kill me."

"I wouldn't imagine such a thing!" I said quickly. How dare he accuse me?

"I assumed not," he said, cocking an eyebrow. "Come on, why are you so tense? Take a joke. Loosen up. I know you will not try to kill me, at least, I'd hope not."

"Never..."

He huffed and grabbed a hammer, then swung it at the wall with full force. I flinched and automatically moved my arms as if to shield myself from the debris. John hit the wall again, and then again, the sound of the crashing being loud and startling to me. I backed up and clenched the mallet tightly in my fist.

"Hey, Alex. Help me with this, will you?"

"I... I don't know."

"It's relieving. As therapeutic as a massage, I'd say. Are you afraid?" he asked suddenly, setting down his own hammer. I decided not to answer. "I'll help you out with your first swing, how about that?"

He held the mallet with me, hands on top of mine. His were warm. I wanted to be warm, too. 

"It won't be bad, I promise," he whispered, squeezing. I let him stand behind me as he guided my hands back, then moved with me to hit the wall. It made barely a dent. "Picture somebody you hate," John said firmly.

"Why should I do that?" I whispered as I shifted my weight from one foot to another. With John pressed up against me like this... Jesus, he's hot. Never noticed that before. But I couldn't want him. I'd be stupid to allow history to repeat itself.

"Because then you'll feel motivated to hit the wall. It's a win-win situation; you take out your anger, and nobody actually gets hurt. And the wall gets taken down, which is a bonus."

"Okay," I mumbled, trying to think of somebody I hate. The first person who came to mind was Jefferson. John led me, again, to make contact with the wall. It was weak again.

"Focus, Alex," he said, giving my hands a quick squeeze from where they held the handle. 

"Okay."

We moved again, this time with more force. The small dent from before now caved into a hole. I hit it again, not yet satisfied with the damage.

I didn't notice how John let go of the mallet and backed up. I hit the wall again, then again, and over and over until I was practically panting, having lost myself. I was too far gone. I kept smashing in the wall.

It was like it was really him. I could picture Jefferson standing there, smirking his cocky smile even as I hit him. Making him bleed and showing him pain, like he had done to me. He told me he liked me. What a fucking liar. Liar. Liar!

"Liar," I mumbled under my breath, smashing the mallet into the wall again. I felt arms grabbing my waist, pulling me away as I swung aimlessly. I dropped the mallet and breathed heavily, collapsing backwards into whoever was grabbing me.

John. He had one arm around my waist, the other over my arms and chest, holding me back. I had no more energy to fight or squirm. I didn't cry. I stared, feeling my chest as it moved up slowly then down. 

"Hey," John said, not letting go of me.

"I'm sorry," I said quickly. "I lost control of myself for a bit there..."

"Don't apologize, now what is it that was troubling you?" He slowly let go of me and turned me around, then took my hand. "Alex?"

I pulled my hand away from him. "I don't... like to talk about it."

"Alex."

"Please?"

John didn't touch me at all anymore. He backed up awkwardly.  "I won't ask, then.  You may tell me if you'd like to, though."

"You wouldn't want to hear."

"I would."

"I—" I cut myself off and looked at the floor.  "I'm sorry, for getting carried away.  I can continue helping you but maybe I should..."

"Lay off of the smashing for a while," John nodded, agreeing.  "Don't worry about it.  There's not too much to finish anyway.  You can begin measuring the height of the ceiling while I finish the wall, huh?"

"Yes, Sir," I said, satisfied with that.  I'd much rather measure.  I'm good with numbers.

I dug through the toolbox and found a spool of tape with inches on one side and centimeters on the other.  I decided to use the metric system and see how many meters tall the ceiling was.

"Mr. Laurens, should I measure in meters or feet?  I find it easier to count meters, although if you want me to work with numbers, cost-wise the standard system would be easier."

John grinned.  "Whichever is fine for you."  He bashed the hammer into the wall.  I flinched again, but not out of fear of being hit—just the noise and the recent embarrassment several moments ago.  While he did that, I began to measure the height of the wall.

I was too short.

"There should be a ladder in the shed," John said.

• • •

The wall was taken down by the end of the day, the measurements written for how tall and wide the wall had been and how tall and wide the doors were going to be, and the depth of the closet itself. I had spent the majority of my time doing mental math and writing out a rough draft for our supply budget, to see how much wood we needed and what sizes and approximate numbers based off of the guesses John had made for how much a board or a door would cost.

"Well," John yawned, stretching and cracking his back, "that's day one. I think we did rather well. I'm going to head to bed."

"Yes, Sir. I'll do the same unless you'd like me to work on other chores a while longer."

"You should sleep in one of my guest rooms. That way you'll be up and ready early in the morning and an arms length away."

I paused. Jefferson made my quarters in the house, too. Never in his bed, but never out with the other slaves. "Are you sure?" I asked. "I'll be fine sleeping in the slaves' quarters."

"I insist." He waved me toward the door, then lead me into the hall. He opened a door that was only one away from his room. John walked in and jumped onto an already made bed. I knew it was already made because I made it. "See?" he said, groaning and stretching out. "It's much more comfortable than the cots in the quarters. C'mon, come see."

I awkwardly walked to the bed and he scooted aside, letting me lay down next to him on my back. "It is very comfortable," I said as I wriggled my shoulders a bit. 

We laid in silence for a moment, shoulders several inches apart. I got a warm feeling in my stomach but reminded myself that my same feelings toward Jefferson had led me to a downfall. John didn't care about me. Nobody cared about me.

"Right, well, I'm going to bed for real," John said as he got up. "Good night."

"Oh, um, good night, Sir." I cursed myself under my breath. Every time I said 'sir' I reminded myself that he didn't want me to call him that, but yet I kept saying it. 

When I realized John had left and shut the door, I groaned and flipped onto my stomach. I hugged the pillow. The other slaves didn't necessarily hate me before; they rarely gave me trouble. But now if they find out— and they will find out— that John is giving me the special treatment and letting me sleep in the house, they'll resent me for sure. It won't be long before rumors go around that I'm doing something vile such as giving our master sexual favors in return for comfort, as the story went a million times again.

John acted exactly like Jefferson. Friendly and kind, helpful; but I knew that just like Jefferson, John would pull off his mask and drop the façade and manipulate me. He would pretend that he loves me and I'll say it a million times to him— I love you, I love you, I love you— just for him to hit me and call me a stupid bitch for ever believing that he could love me back. Why? I asked myself. Because I'm a sodomite, that's why. Because I long for the touch of a man. Because I wanted him so badly when all he wanted was somebody to stick his prick in. Jefferson wasn't like me. He loves women, and only women. That's why he couldn't love me like I loved him. Not unless I was a woman.

I whimpered into my pillow like a dog. Stupid bitch. I felt my body trembling. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Unloved, unwanted, unnecessary. Stupid. 

• • •

I woke up the next morning in the comfortable bed. My hair was a mess and I was wearing only underwear and my white button-up. I remembered tossing off my pants and waistcoat at some point last night before getting under the covers and going to bed. 

I sat up and glanced wearily at the clock on the wall. Shit. At the sight of the little hand long past the nine, it being nearly ten, I jumped out of bed and began to dress myself in yesterday's clothes. I went into the bathroom that was connected to this room and combed my hair back with my fingers. There was no way I was getting this to look neat in a ponytail. I left it down and used my fingers to brush it back a bit. 

Goddamn, I looked like a mess. John's going to be so mad. I wouldn't be surprised if he whipped me, or slapped me, or maybe pushed me down the stairs.

Still, as I walked towards his bedroom, I had no tears left to cry. I haven't cried in so long. I've shouted, I've whimpered, I've groaned, but not cried. Not since Thomas told me once and for all that he would never love me.  Vile.  I wouldn't love him, either. So I would never cry again, I decided.

"Alexander, you're up late," John said, barely glancing at me. He was looking over some sort of newspaper and drinking coffee on the floor. 

"I'm terribly sorry. It won't happen again." I didn't even bother explaining myself. Excuses would just lead to more bruises.

"It's fine." He looked up. "God, you look like a mess," he said, stifling laughter. 

"I— why'd you say it was fine?" I asked.

"Because it is. You need to get properly dressed in clean clothes. Are they still out in the servants' housing?"

"How is it fine?" I repeated. "I disobeyed you. I was late. How can you say that it is fine?"

"Alexander." John set his newspaper and coffee down on the floor and stood. He walked to me. "Why are you so set on this? What, do you want me to punish you for sleeping? That's a bit ridiculous, don't you think?"

"It's just... my former deed-holder..." I trailed off and shook my head.

"What is it?"

"He was just strict, is all. He would punish me for things like that so I expected you to. I've never seen the inner mechanisms of a slave-owning home other than... where I worked before. But where I grew up and the people I visited—they never... I never knew what to expect. So, your cordiality has caught me off guard."

John crossed his arms, glanced off, and whispered, "I wouldn't cause harm to you. I'm not some mean tyrant."

"He was nice to me too... at first..." I said, as if justifying my thought process. Like you, I wanted to add. He was "nice" just like you. 

"What did your former deed-holder do other than punishing you for simple things?"

"It doesn't matter."

"Yes, it does." John took my hand. "Come on."

"It really doesn't." I pulled my hand away from his once again, just like yesterday. I can't get roped into yet another situation like this.

John made no comment. He changed the subject without a sigh or a groan. "I have a comb if you'd like to pull your hair up."

"Thank you."

"No problem," he muttered and disappeared into the bathroom. He emerged again and handed me a brush. "Put it up and go downstairs to eat breakfast. Bring your clothes from the slaves' quarters back upstairs when you've finished."

I blinked, confused as to why he was letting me eat breakfast, too. Not only did he not punish me, but he was practically rewarding me. I didn't move for several moments.

"Alexander?"

"Thank you," I repeated, this time really meaning what I said. "Thank you so much."

He opened his mouth to say something so I stood there, waiting.  But nothing ever came.  "Am I excused?" I asked.

"Of course, go ahead."

I nodded and walked out of the room.  Once at a safe distance I leaned against a wall and sighed breathily in relief.  Maybe John was actually nice.  Maybe he wouldn't hurt me.  Maybe he did want to be friends with me.  

I like him, I want to be friends with him.  I pulled back my hair and walked downstairs to eat breakfast.

• • •

Okay, John was really nice.  Suspiciously nice.  But every time I tried to find a way around it, see if it was a façade, he didn't budge.  He remained patient with me as we struggled to build that stupid closet.  He remained patient as I worriedly would wake up late or would be startled around the shower.  He didn't judge my decision to be silent a lot of the time, but on the flip side he didn't judge me when I was loud and talkative.

I grew more and more talkative.  I trusted that he wouldn't yell at me or shame me for my ideas.  Weeks later, we had the wall and the closet built, and we were laying down the carpet.  I grew comfortable and took off my waistcoat, then talked of all the ideas I had about society.  

John smiled and talked with me.  How informal he appeared before me, like he didn't care that I was his slave.  He just talked with me.

I laid on my stomach and stared at the book before me. John sat nearby, cross-legged, head tipped back as he smiled fondly and spoke. I looked away from my book.

"I loved Homer's Iliad," he said softly. That's what I was reading. "Oh, the romance of war... interesting, right?"

"Who'd've thought war could be romantic?" I laughed gently.

"Dying for your best friend..." he took a deep breath. I recognized that look in his eyes. I often bore that look myself. 

"Patroclus?"

He smiled fondly. "It speaks to you, too?"

"...Yes," I answered after a moment. Would he understand why?

John just laughed and fell back so he laid down as well. He rolled over next to me and peeked at what I was reading. He grinned and read aloud:

"'Not one of all the race, nor sex, nor age, Shall save a Trojan from our boundless rage. Ilion shall perish whole, and bury all.' Curious—this always spoke to me. That you happen to be on that page is a coincidence."

"It was book-marked," I explained. He nodded, understanding. "And under-lined."

"What do you think of it?"

"Oh, I—I don't know exactly. Perhaps the thought is romantic—war—but also tragic. But... that nobody could stop the collective anger of the Achaeans... that it wasn't limited to a single type of person—man or woman, European or African, sinner or saint—it's profound—a profound thought for its time, especially."

"Oh, and the dying words of Patroclus—!  I believed I bookmarked that as well."

I smiled and glanced back down at the book.  "He remained fearless.  He told Hector that he would face the wrath of Achilles, and I think that must have come from some sort of anger.  Hector said that nobody could save him..."

John shifted and laid his head in his arms.  He finished my thought, "Not even Achilles."

"Achilles could've... had he been there," I said confidently.

"You believe so?"

"Yes, I mean, Achilles was strong enough.  And, he loved Patroclus, so he wouldn't've failed him.  Oh, but the guilt, the pain he suffered..."

John nodded.  "How do you figure Achilles loved Patroclus?"

Oh, no.  He definitely knew.  We certainly were thinking the same thing.  The way in which Achilles loved Patroclus, "It's not for us to say with any certainty."

John's shoulders tensed.  So, I went on.

"I think it's a relationship that sets an example.  It certainly... it certainly defines what love should be.  Between them, however, it's not for us.  It's for them."

John relaxed a bit.  "Do you think it to be like the love of man and wife?"

No doubt, we're on the same page.  "I think it's beyond that.  Man and wife is not always the perfect example of love," I said, thinking back to my childhood, "and so love isn't something that must be categorically defined.  It may be something nobody ever thought of before."

John's lips turned into another soft smile and he watched me carefully.  I bit my inner cheek to avoid my own smile but failed.  I felt... at ease.

• • •

That night, I woke up with a horrible feeling.  Cold sweat, I had dreamed of Thomas Jefferson.  What I thought had been him, at least, but turned out to be John.  Screaming at me, telling me that who I am is wrong, that I'm worthless, that I'm an unlovable bastard. 

I sat awake in silence.  After being unable to fall back asleep, I got out of bed, wearing only shorts and a nightshirt.  I crept out of my room to go to the library downstairs.  It was in the basement, the archives, but by god, it was beautiful.  I had found my comfort in Thomas' home to be in the library, and now here.  The difference was, I was actually allowed to be in this library.  John welcomed me.

I turned on a lamp and walked around hazily, barely examining the books.  It was dimly out of course and unless I was standing directly under the lamp, I would've had a difficult time reading the titles.  Instead, I admired the shapes, thought about the colors and how they calmed me down.  

There were footsteps behind me.  Soft, but I could hear them.  I didn't turn around out of shock for a moment.

"Alexander?" a voice whispered, deep and dripping with honey.  I mocked myself in my own mind for the picture I painted of John's sultry voice and turned around.

"Oh, hey," I said.

"It's late."  He set down his candle and crossed his arms at me.  

"I apologize, did I wake you?"

"Yes, but that's unimportant.  Are you all right?"

"Yes, I'm fine," I lied, forcing a half-smile as I backed up and found myself leaned against the table.  John stepped a little closer.  "I just like the library..."

"As do I," John said with a sigh.

"Are you upset with me for being down here so late in the night?"

"Wha—? No, I'm not. I don't mind. I was just making sure you were all right, is all."

I cocked my head a little, no longer worried about him being upset. "You seem flustered, Mr. Laurens," I whispered with a small smile. I knew that what I was getting into was dangerous territory, but I felt the need to. It had happened once before. Stupid, I told myself, stop it, don't let him take advantage of you like Thomas had.

I froze when I was closer to him. It was as if I was barely in control of my own body. He was leaning back, somewhat away from me, back to the table. I was in front of him and put a hand behind him on the table, my other hand on his waist. Shit, shit, shit.

"Alexander... what are we doing?" he asked softly. I stayed still. I wanted him so badly, but I couldn't. But I was this far already...

"Mister—"

"John," he corrected quickly under his breath.

"What?"

"Please, just— John. I just want you to call me by my first name." 

"John," I said. I moved closer. This wasn't the first time I've had a close encounter with him— just a couple weeks ago, I had bumped into him and he sort of took my hand. He had his body against mine and for a moment I wanted the same thing I wanted now—but I pulled away, embarrassed, and didn't speak of it.

I repeated myself. "John..."

"You—" he stopped short when I had my lips no more than a couple inches from his. I felt his hands on my hips and I kissed him. It was chaste, not fueled by anything but curiosity. I pulled away quickly and stared, slightly panicked.

"I-I'm sorry," I said, although I knew I wasn't. I knew I was going to be, but right now I wasn't sorry.

"Don't—that, um, that was good," he mumbled. He moved his hands up my back and held his body against mine. "Don't be sorry."

"You're nervous?"

"No," he said quickly. "I'm not."

I laughed. "You really aren't?"

"I've done this plenty of times."

"Done what?"

"Kiss... men," he said slowly.

I raised my eyebrows. "Really?" I leaned forward to kiss him again, feeling much better now. He gripped at my back and pulled me deeper into the kiss. This was new. There was something there that I've never felt with anybody else. 

He pulled away breathily and spun me so that I was pressed against the table. John leaned me back and I felt his hand touch my cheek as he kissed me again. 

I felt myself tense. The kiss was nice, it felt so good, but being beneath him scared me. I felt like I was suffocating. 

I hesitantly pushed him away. He almost immediately backed up, confused, but kept his hand in mine.

"Are you all right?" John whispered.  I nodded.

"I'm fine."

"Are you sure?  If you don't want me to do something, just say it, and I won't make you do it, of course."

"I want to kiss you," I said decidedly. He pecked my cheek and nuzzled his nose into my neck. I let out a short giggle and touched his back. "John," I said, "do you fancy men?"

John pulled away and looked at me, obviously confused. "I... I suppose—"

"Do you really? ...Or must you imagine a woman when you kiss me?"

"What? No, I see you. A man," he whispered, "Alexander..."

"All right." I leaned in again to kiss him and he put his hand up. "What?" I asked. 

"You aren't all right, I can see it. I don't wish to kiss you if you aren't well."

"I am well."

"I can see—"

"John."

"Alexander."

Exasperated, I say, "I am well.  Please, kiss me. Kiss me," I repeated softly. I knew I was getting desperate.  "I don't care."

I felt him press his forehead against mine, breathing my air and hugging my waist. He shifted to kiss my neck, then begin to unbutton the top buttons of my shirt to make way for his lips on my collarbone. I inhaled sharply and turned my head to the side. He pulled me even closer by the waist and I breathed heavily against him.

"It's late," John whispered to me as he knelt down, forehead pressed against my stomach and hands holding my hips. I knew he was dangerously close to my crotch. It took everything in me not to beg him to get me off.

"Yeah, and?" I inquired.

"Even if you still are restless and cannot sleep, I think you should lie down. It's late. You'll be exhausted come tomorrow."

"All right."  I slowly twisted away and began for the exit.  "Good night, John."

"Oh, I meant—" he seemed at a loss for words and then, suddenly and painfully, I knew what he meant.  How embarrassing.  It was an invitation to lay with him and I thought nothing of it.

Before I could react I felt John behind me and his fingers dancing over my arm.  "Would you like to," he began, struggling, then, "What I meant before was that you sleep with me.  So?"

"No sex?" I asked.

He laughed and kissed my cheek.  Aww.  No previous lover of mine has done that.

As we began upstairs I felt badly—I couldn't help but compare the actions of John to the actions of Jefferson in my head.  It was terrible.  The candle light flickered as John still had the candle in his hand, and it cast soft shadows against the floor and walls.  In the shadows I compared my figure with John's.  His shadow loomed around me, and whether that be because it was protecting mine or capturing it, I did not know.

But it was silly to make analogies of shadows to relationships.  It was silly to think one way or the other.  I'm in too deep, now; I'll have to entertain the thought of this monstrous relationship.  My momentary desires of seeing John so exposed in his nightwear and me in mine has bested me.  Impulsive decisions had consequences. 

But I felt like the whole time I've known John has built up to this moment.  As if I somehow knew this would happen sooner or later.  Perhaps it's because it was meant to be; or, perhaps it was because I am desperate for love, and I knew that if he obliged, I'd make it known that I want that affection.  And he's giving it to me.  He has obliged my request.

This is a business transaction.  I give him whatever he wants, and in return I get to feel like somebody gives a shit about me.

"You never fully answered earlier," John said.  I pulled myself away from my thoughts, now aware that we were outside his door.

"I supposed following you to your bedroom was enough,"  I answered.  He laughed once again and I stared at him.  I wish I knew how to make a move.  But, I didn't.  I didn't know if he wanted me to right now.  He laughed at my suggestion of sex.

He hummed and combed his fingers through my hair.  I leaned up, closer, hoping he'd kiss me—but he didn't.  He pulled away and I followed him into his bedroom.  He set down the candle, closed the door, blew the candle out, and took my hand.  I followed him to the bed.   

"Do you like me?" I asked softly as I laid down with him.  From what I gathered, he looked surprised at the inquiry.

"I—of course, I do."

That was the right answer. He knew what he was doing. He knew the business.

"Hah.  You say it as if it's supposed to be obvious—"

"Isn't it?  Obvious, I mean," he pulled the cover up over me, "I don't believe I've done anything to show the opposite, have I?"

"I suppose you're right.  I just wanted to hear you say it."  I put my arm around him and sighed.

"All right.  Well, goodnight then, Alexander."  He kissed my cheek and I stared at the ceiling for a moment before allowing myself a smile.

• • • 

"Hey, that thing about Achilles and Patroclus—" John began, putting a hand on my shoulder, "a long while back, do you remember that?"

"I recall that conversation," I said.  I set my cup of tea down and watched him go to sit next to me on the sofa.  

"Right.  Well, you know the subject—did you get what I was saying?—about Achilles and Patroclus being like the love of man and wife."

"Yes, I did.  I suppose we both approached the subject gingerly..."

"It's just that I liked you then, too, and felt that our ceaseless flirting and talking meant something more than... well, you know.  That was many, many months ago, though.  I'm glad now that my assumptions about whether or not you'd be interested in the certain indulgences similar to man and wife—rather, man and man—were right.  Did that make sense?  I'm rambling.  I only mean to say that I'm glad this is okay and that I have your kinship."

I tried not to laugh at him.  I sipped my tea and shook my head.

"You're ridiculous."

He pressed a kiss to my cheek and I smiled, although suddenly worried because we were only in the parlor. Anybody could have walked in.

"John," I chided.

"What?"

"What if... what if somebody had walked in?"

"Right," he sighed.  "That wouldn't be good.  I suppose we'll have to stay somewhere more private now, won't we?"

I raised an eyebrow and scoffed.  I knew that tone.  I knew he was up to something, but what exactly, "Are you saying...?  Would you like to go upstairs?"

"No.  Well, I suppose we could, but I have a secret."

I was unamused, so I ignored him and went back to reading my book.  He frowned, I saw out of the corner of my eyes.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" he asked hopefully.

"Not particularly."

"Hey, don't be so cold," he said.  He put a hand on my knee.  "Come on, now..."

"Fine.  Yes, what is it?"

He grinned.  "You'll have to wait and see."

I hit him playfully on the arm.  "You jerk," I said.  He laughed and kissed me on the cheek again.  I pushed him away with a shake of my head.  

"No, but seriously, pack your bags.  We're leaving in an hour."

I laughed.  He's kidding.

"I can't wait for you to see the surprise," he said, getting up.  I cocked my head at him.

"Seriously?"

"Yes.  Come on, let's get packed."

• • •

I crossed my arms, slumped down in my seat.  John was driving.  I kept my eyes focused on the signs.  Wherever we were going, it was far.  It had been a few hours already, at least.

I sat up and leaned over to John to look at his watch.  Yeah, it's been like four hours.  My ass hurt and my legs were numb and, "I have to piss," I said with a frown.  John looked to me and smiled.

"I'll pull over somewhere soon..."

"How far away are we?"

"Don't you worry about it."

"You sound so creepy."  I sighed.  "It's almost dark."

"Yeah, I wanted it to be dark when we got there."

I laughed.  "Why?"

"Reasons."

"So mysterious and dark, John Laurens... so debonair."

He shook his head and grinned, eyes still focused on the road.  

We soon pulled up to a gas station on the side of the road.  It was just a bit after sunset, and the outside lights were on.  I got out of the car, hoping nobody would try to steal it as I approached the outhouse around the back.  John had gone inside to pay for gas.

The outhouse was utterly disgusting.  I scowled and left as quickly as I could.  

John was filling the tank, so I jumped back into the car and slid down in the seat.  He looked over to me and I couldn't help but smile at him.  It had been years since I'd been so free like this.

Once he was done, he came to my side of the car and leaned against the side with a grin.  "Hey, boy," he said in a low voice, "what're you doing out here all on your lonesome?"

I laughed and rolled my eyes, leaning in a bit.  "Oh, nothing... my beau and I are taking a little drive."

"Is that so?  Well, you can always take a drive with me if you'd prefer... I know how to treat a man.  Ditch that clown and come with me, Sugar."

I played up my best acting face, stifling laughter again.  I said, "Sorry, Sir... I'm devoted to my man."

"I see.  And who is this man?  I will fight to defend your honor."

"Now, Sir, you don't have to do that.  This man is too sweet—I'd hate to see him bruise his fists beating you up."

It was John's turn to laugh.  "Sweet, you say?"

"Yessir, my John is very sweet."

"Your John sounds like a real tool, boy.  'Sweet'," he scoffed, "I bet he is."

"Oh, trust me, he certainly is a tool."

John gasped and pretended to storm off, only to go around and jump into the driver's seat.  He huffed and looked at me.

"Hey, who was that jerk you were talking to?" John asked.  I couldn't hold it any longer and burst into a fit of laughter.  John chuckled and kissed my cheek.  He turned my face so I'd kiss him on the lips; I did, and he put his hand on the back of my neck.

I eventually pulled back although I couldn't tear my gaze away from his eyes.  

"We should go before somebody sees us," he mumbled.  I agreed and held his hand as he started the car.

• • •

I felt a bit of laughter bubbling up but I caught it in my throat. I heard John drop the bags and let his suitcase fall, but he still kept a firm hand over my eyes. I'd been blind-folded for the past half hour, and now he was making sure I didn't peek.

I heard a door close. He put an arm around my waist and I shuffled with him until we landed on a soft surface. A couch, bed, perhaps? He laughed and took his hand off my eyes.

I took a moment to adjust my eyes. The first thing I saw of course was John; but beyond him was a window. We were indeed on some sort of sofa. It was a navy blue. John was on top of me still. I chuckled, said, "Where are we?"

"It's an apartment," he murmured against my ear. 

"Really? Why?"

He grinned and kissed me. I just patted his back then squirmed out of his hold to see where we were. He jumped up after me, followed me to the window, and put an arm around me. I leaned into the window and felt my breath catch at the lit up city below.

"John, this is..."

"New York City," he finished.

"Why?" I repeated.

"Just taking a little vacation. I have to do a ton of meetings and work here because my father—well, he wants me to get into politics, as you know. I was smuggling slaves for a while but he found out and put an end to it. So, here we are; but you already knew this anyway, as I told you once, didn't I?"

"Yes, you did.  I'm sorry, John."

"Ah, never mind.  Anyway..." he squeezed me and kissed the side of my face all over.  I twisted my face to lean into him and he continued, "I can't wait to spend these two weeks with you."

"Two weeks, huh?"

"Yes indeed.  Would you care to see the rest of our temporary abode, Mr. Hamilton?"

"Show me the way." 

He took my hand and lead me through the room.  It was spacious and open, with dark colors accented with lighter grays and whites.  I could tell a lot of it was blue.  There were some earthy colors with them, and more whites in decor, but overall it was a very nice room to be in.  There was a radio in the corner by a sofa.  I was in awe by it.

He lead me to the kitchen.  It was also very nice.  The bathroom, too.

The apartment was small as I'd seen; however, it was cozy.

He showed me to the bedroom.  It was stunning.  The bed was so plush and soft; it was white with a white headboard.  A black chandelier hung in the middle, and a bookshelf was in the corner.  There was a bureau with a beautiful mirror as well.

"Oh, my God," I breathed.  He laughed in excitement.  

"Nice, huh?"

"It's so nice!  God, John, how long have you had this place?"

"A couple years, now... maybe a year and a half.  But, I got it to stay in when I'm on business in the city.  I wanted to come at night so that nobody would see you with me.  You know, people would start to talk..."

"You don't need to explain it to me.  Don't worry."  I leaned against him, breathy chuckles escaping my throat.  "Two weeks, you said?"

"Yessir."

I pulled him close to me and looked up, hands in his back pockets.  "Well, Sir, I hope you've stocked up on Vaseline."

He ducked his head out of, presumably, embarrassment; I felt his lips on my neck as he picked me up, holding me against his body.  It caused me to gasp audibly and hold onto his body, close, very close.  I liked being close with him. 

Sometimes it would startle me.  He would be affectionate in ways I had no idea a man could be.  It was always the little things that surprised me the most—things I needed—things I never even knew I needed—things I never knew one could do to make his lover feel so good.  These were the things I enjoyed the most.

But, sometimes that closeness between us felt too cordial and friendly.  Sometimes I needed to feel good in other ways.  I had tried to get that with him again and again—but, again and again, he somehow turned me down.

That was all right I supposed.  I mean, of course I want to have sex with him and feel that heat and passion—but, I've had sex before.  I've searched for meaning and placement in my sad little life, but I felt wrong about it.

So maybe I had been approaching it all the wrong way.  Maybe now, testing the waters and taking it slow, I could make something that lasts.  

John fell over me on the bed.  I felt him squeeze my thighs and drag me closer to him, my legs spread.  He leaned down to continue kissing me, hands still gripping my thighs.  I wrapped my arms around his neck.

I need him.  

He rubbed my hips and my waist.  I pushed as close as I could.  I need more of him.

"Alex," he breathed.  I groped for his shirt to try and unbutton it.  "Alex."

"Yes?" I whispered, rushed.

He collapsed next to me.  "We need to unpack.  And sleep," he added, "I'm exhausted."

"Aw."

"We have two weeks to do that.  Let's just sleep."

• • •

John was cute when he slept.  He had this cute little baby fat on his cheeks (not that it wasn't always there), his lips were parted, his breaths deep and sturdy (chest rising and falling with each one), his hands limp and his shoulders relaxed.  To me, he was just this big adorable pillow.  I laid on him like a pillow, at least.  I hugged him and snuggled him like a pillow.  The best part was that, just like a pillow, he didn't care.  He didn't care about my clinginess or my laying my head on him.  He was fine just being a pillow.

Unlike a pillow, however, he hugged back.  He would squeeze the shit out of my waist.  He'd practically strangle me.  

Well, that's an overstatement.  But he did hug me really hard.

He kissed my neck and my cheek and then my nose and my lips.  He would stare at me in the middle of the night.  Sometimes I pretended to be asleep, knowing he would disapprove of my unusual sleeping patterns regardless, but I knew he was staring.  And sometimes I'd look up at him and ask; then he would talking about his favorite parts of my body.  Then, teasingly I would remind him that he hasn't even seen every part of my body.  I hoped he would make a move but he never did.  He just rubbed my back and laughed.  

So I pinned him down before bed.  It was our fourth day in the city.  He'd been out so often doing meetings and such that it felt pointless to me, at this point, to have even come with him.  But, in retrospect that wasn't true.  I was indeed quite happy to have come with him.  I enjoyed the city. It was my home. Now, I just had to get him to sleep with me already!

"How are you?" he said softly.  It was as if he didn't even care that I just pushed him down and sat on his hips. 

"Hello," I said.  I leaned down to kiss him.  He put his hands on my chest. I put my own hands over them and coaxed his to grip the fabric of my shirt. "I'm good. And you, Mr. Laurens?"

"Good, Mr. Hamilton. Come closer, dear."

I moved as close as I could, laying on top of him.

"Perfect." John wrapped his arms and began to unbutton my shirt. I breathed out against his neck. Finally. He pulled it off my shoulders and I felt his lips on my adam's apple, pressed on my throat, holding me and making me want to just collapse in on him right then and there.

I didn't want to talk. It would ruin this. 

"What ever could I have done to deserve you, Alexander?" he mumbled on my skin. I felt the small breaths. It tickled a little.

"I don't deserve you..."

"You deserve better—but as I love you, I won't let you go. You're stuck with me, dear," he laughed.

I was so flattered that I nearly forgot that he said it—I love you. I felt heat pricking my cheeks and neck, aware my knuckles turned white from how I gripped John's hands. He pulled his hands away with a small noise, maybe it was an ow, but I couldn't focus on his pain. Only on how he just ruined everything.

"No, you don't."

"Alexander—"

"No. No, no, no." I got off of him, despite his protests. He grabbed my wrist. I shoved him away and grabbed my shirt from the floor, buttoning rapidly.

"Alex, I—"

"No. I don't want to hear it. I don't want to hear about whatever goddamn fantasy you've convinced yourself of in your mind, John, I'm— I can't. I won't." I pulled on shoes quickly, heading towards the door. 

"Where are you going?"

"Don't follow me. I'll be back, I just need space, all right? I'll be back when you've stopped lying to yourself."

"Lying to myself? As I said that I love you?"

"Yes," I snapped. I grabbed his coat and a hat.

"Alex! You can't go out there, what if somebody sees you? If you don't have ID they're going to arrest you, and—"

"I'll fine, John! Really! Hunt me down if you wish, cuff me to the wall and beat me, anything is better than sleeping with you like we're some romance novel, and being lied to as if I'm so goddamn gullible! I'm not. I won't stand for it." I grabbed the door and slammed it behind me, ran down the stairs down the hall so that I wouldn't run into the man running the elevator.

Fuck. Fucking fuck! I put my hands in the pockets. As this was John's coat, I felt some paper. Money. Beautiful cash. I'd be okay. But, I needed to get a hold of myself. A crying man would look suspicious. Best not to draw attention. It was only evening, and the streets were lit up, so I wasn't hidden well. The city was so vibrant. I wiped my cheeks and sucked in a breath.

I couldn't believe John ruined everything. Why would he ever say that? He doesn't love me. He only wants me to believe so and as I told him, I simply won't stand for it. I won't allow him to get inside my head like that.

More than he already was inside my head anyway. I knew I couldn't stop thinking about him. This was my fault, I realized as I kept my head down and walked past a couple. I should not've gotten attached. I should not've made the first move on him. It was never my place to indulge in his literature or to supply rants and opinions. It was never right of me to lure him in like the viral infection I am, only to tear him down. Convince him he loves me. I scoffed. I'm so pitiable. I'm nothing more than a germ of a man, a promiscuous trashcan who would only love and trick others into loving me.

But nobody loved me. It was pity enveloped in lust, just as every woman I've helped—every woman I've slept with—every woman I've given money when they were in need. When Thomas Jefferson found that I'd been handing out wads of his cash to whores, the disgusting women of Monticello who deserved nothing, as he'd put it, I thought he'd kill me on the spot.

But, he wouldn't. I was far too valuable. I was too valuable to his campaign and his career. Only after he'd used me, squeezed out every last drop of my knowledge and abused me, he resold me. He kicked me aside. I was like an empty can. He had no use for me any longer, not to argue or abuse or to use as a vessel of political gain, not to satiate his needs or to write out his paperwork and letters that he didn't want to write—so he threw me away.

It was fine. I deserved it. My next owner wouldn't be any better, I told myself.

But the next rich man who held my deed was John Laurens. But could he really be better than Thomas Jefferson, since he also had slaves? Had I lied to myself by saying he was nothing like him?

John didn't hurt his slaves. He hardly even talked to them. He had them for show. But, a good man would never have that at all, would he?

So, I had lied to myself on more than one level concerned John. I lied of who he was and what I meant to him. He still owned me. You could never love something you owned.

• • •

I sat inside the bar, nearly falling asleep in spite of the noise and the cabaret.  I had drank a few beers, then handed off half of the money in my pocket to a woman who sat outside the bar with a baby in her arms, crying, her husband having left the bar with "some girl" as she'd said.  Lord. I'm too empathetic for my own good.

I only sat hungry, thirsty, frowning and worrying.  Part of me wished that John would seek me out and drag me back to him.  I knew my desires were dark and twisted.  Such desires tormented me.

I left the bar.  I had to clear my head, somehow.  I'd find some poor, liquored up sap and occupy my mind with his body; or a woman, who is helpless and desires what I also desire—clarity and temporary comfort.

I pressed my back against the brick wall of some building.  It was nearly eleven PM.  I felt weak.

Across the street, a man caught my eye.  I felt my breath catch and I put my head down immediately.  I began to walk in the opposite direction.

I was aware that he crossed the street.  I was aware that he walked faster to chase me through the crowds on the street.  I was aware that he followed my movement as a hawk follows his mouse, his prey, his next meal.  I tried to escape, but his talons grabbed my shoulder.  I only kept my head down.

"Hamilton."

I tried to pull away without causing a scene.  I know no such a man, I had wanted to say.  'Hamilton'?  Who, now?

"Where is your master, slave?"

I swallowed.  I wanted to punch him.  I still didn't turn.

"How the hell did you end up in the city?"

I tried to keep walking, but he held tighter.

"Who owns you, now?"

I clenched my fist, whispered, "Let go of me."

"Let go of you?  And assist a runaway?" he said, almost laughed.  I could hear it in his smug tone.  Fucking asshole.

"Let me go," I said again.  "Sir."

"I'd be impressed with your manners, had I no clue you were escaping right now.  Where are you off to, anyway?  Where do you think you could ever run and hide?"

"Jefferson, leave me be."

Jefferson barked a laugh.  "Who would ever buy you?  Such a skinny bitch of a man—a boy—a sodomite."

I snapped and turned, yanking my hand away.  I then made a run for it.  He didn't follow me.  

I didn't know where to run.  Back to John?  But that's exactly what he wants.  He expects it, even.  And regardless, I don't want to see him, now.  Not after seeing Jefferson.  I can't let the two get mixed in my head.  I had to keep them separate.

I ran for what felt like forever until I got tired, until I leaned against the building, until I saw two men approaching me and before I could stand up to catch my breath, they seized me.  Men in dark blue uniforms, eight buttons in two columns of four going up their chests.  I initially wanted to fight this.  I could try and break free, but what then?  Get caught again and face worse punishments?

They dragged me to the car.  I suppose John really did send for me, then.

• • •

I was sitting in a cell at the police station.  In the cell next to me was a man, asleep (I hoped) and in my cell was a woman who cried and cried.  She wouldn't stop.  I wished I could have just shut her up already.  I've been in this cell for hours!

I glanced up at the clock.  It's only been fifty-two minutes.

The door swung open and I resisted the urge to jump up, to present my case of innocence.  Even if that was a good idea, however, I knew they wouldn't listen.  I'm not human.

"This him?" the officer asked the man behind him, tapping my cell with his baton.  The woman cried harder and stood up, grabbed the bars, begged for her life.  I looked up.

Jefferson.

"Yes it is," Jefferson answered.  "I only wanted to make sure his employer knew of his whereabouts.  I suppose it's time to call him, don't you think?"

"Thank you for your help, Mr. Jefferson.  This country would be dead without you," the officer said.  He turned to me again.  "Who holds your deed, boy?"

I didn't answer.  Jefferson cannot know.

"Asked you a question," he said calmly.  I kept my eyes down.  The officer growled and turned to Jefferson.  "Sir, you may leave, now.  Sorry to keep you out this late."

Jefferson shrugged.  "No, It's all right, sir.  If permitted, I would like to see how situations such as these are handled.  For political insight," he added.

The officer wasn't pleased with this.  But, "All right." After a moment, "I have to interrogate him.  Step back, Sir."

Jefferson stepped back as the officer unlocked the cell door and stepped inside.  The crying woman immediately lunged at him, grabbed his jacket, began begging incoherency.  I flinched and pressed back against the wall when I saw him shove her, call her something.  I couldn't help my staring.  I was concerned for her.  I wanted to help her.

He grabbed me by the hood of my coat.  I swallowed.  He demanded again that I tell him who I was, who I belonged to.  I kept my mouth shut.

He demanded I speak.  I wouldn't.  

"Do not scruple to shake him a bit," Jefferson said, amused.  I clenched my jaw.  The officer hit me across the face because of this new permission.  

I wouldn't speak. 

"Whose coat is this?" the officer demanded, as though he were seeing it for the first time.  "Whose coat?"

I felt him grab it, pulling it off of me as I slumped down to the floor.  He shook out the pockets, threw a few coins and dollars at me.  "Whose coat?"  He had shouted it this time.  "I know you didn't get this money on your own."

I couldn't speak.  It would be better if I didn't.  I could not risk saying the wrong thing.

The officer grabbed my hair and shoved me against the wall, face-first, cheek squished against the brick wall.  I made a noise of discomfort.  He began to pat me down.  Luckily, I had nothing on me.  No identification.

He pushed me to the ground and I saw the woman who had been crying.  She had stayed on the floor after being shoved, and I thought nothing of it, but now I could see red pooling on the floor from her head, tears no longer falling, eyes open wide.  For a moment, I thought she might already be dead.  But, I saw her breathing.  Her hand twitched.  I sucked in a startled breath, horrified.  She needs help.  She could die.

I wanted to say something, but the officer spit on my head and I only curled my fingers against the concrete floor.  He kicked me.  I couldn't breathe for a moment.

"She needs medical... attention," I whispered at last, pointing to the woman.  

"She'll be fine.  Answer my questions, slave."

"No, she could die," I begged softly.  Why was I begging for her life?  I didn't know her, I didn't know whether or not she was a good person.  I, myself, had wanted to kill her a few moments ago.  She and her crying, her incessant tears that strangled my ears.

"It's none of your concern."

"It's yours," I said quickly.  "Think about it, S-Sir.  She dies, it's blood on your hands, and you can be sued by her family."

"There are no witnesses.  She has no family.  She was a stupid whore."

I felt anger boil inside me.  "I'm witness!"

"Not if you don't live to testify."

Jefferson laughed from the chair he sat in outside the cell.  He was out there.  I was in here.  He knows my name, that stupid asshole knows my name, he could tell him my name.  He could do something.  He could be witness.

Jefferson said, "Non-citizens cannot testify."

The officer laughed as well, albeit nervously so.  I stayed on my stomach on the floor.  "Mr. Jefferson raises a good point.  He's a true man of law."

Man-of-law my ass.  Jefferson barely knows the bill of rights.  

"I'm sure the slave didn't mean to challenge you, sir," Jefferson said to the officer.  "He's only a criminal, after all—he hasn't a clue of the ways of law."

I wanted to kill him.

"Regardless," the officer said, his shoe on my back, "he refuses to talk.  I suppose nobody would care if he just died at this point.  Whoever owned him was a real yellow idiot—letting a slave get away like this."

I tried to push myself up but he kicked me again, then grabbed me by the collar of my shirt.  I worried to buttons would pop.  He dragged me to the corner of the cell and kicked me again.

"How do you usually get lowlives such as he to talk?" Jefferson asked.  "Out of curiosity.  Do what you will with him, of course.  If you must resort to the extreme, I shall not protest."

"Oh, we could fill a bucket with water... threaten drowning.  Starve him, if it gets to be that extreme."

After making a noise of protest, I was pushed again into the wall.  

"Ah, he likes that idea.  I'll send an officer to get a bucket," he said.  

"John Laurens," I said suddenly, loudly, my throat hoarse and pleading.  "John Laurens holds my deed."

I heard Jefferson's chair creek in the silence of the room.  No more crying or soft sounds of pain from the woman, no more shouting from the officer, only me and my panting breaths, my unsteady knees dropping to the concrete after a moment.  

There was surprise in that.  

"Of course he does," Jefferson said in a low tone.  

The officer left me in the cell, closed it without even locking it.  He went to the telephone and began dialing.  I shivered and reached for John's coat, pulled it close without pulling it on.  My eyes stayed trained on the woman knocked out nearby.

After a moment I pulled the coat on and went to her, picking her up.  She closed her eyes.  I felt relieved to feel the pulse in her neck as I did my best to drag her to the bench in the corner of the cell, sitting her up straight.  I got near her ear.

"Can you hear me, miss?"

She didn't react.  I swallowed hard and sat beside her.  She had to stay awake.  I was afraid she'd die if she didn't fight.  Who knew if she had a husband, a lover, children, family who loved her?  Who could say she was a stupid whore?  Stupid, perhaps, to cry and fight back, but perhaps it was the drive to see her children again that made her resistant.

But look where she was, now: bleeding, half-dead.  If she did have children, they were doomed.

"Wake up," I said, shaking her hand.  "Wake up."

I pulled her scarf off of her neck and wrapped it around her head to stop the bleeding.  If only John were here.  He'd know precisely what to do.  He'd save her.  I'm just as worthless as a child in this situation.  A fool.

"You have people who need you," I said to her, not knowing if it was true.

She tried to open her eyes.  I could tell.

"Stay awake," I all but begged.

"Stop talking to her," The officer said, hand over the receiver of the telephone.  I dipped my head down.

He hung up the phone, opened the cell, helped up the unconscious woman, and left the room with her.  I sighed in relief, assuming that he took her to get help.

Jefferson stood up and walked to the open cell.  He knew I wouldn't try to run.  He leaned against the door, smirked.

"It's been a long time, Hamilton," he said.  He sounded smug.  Of course he was smug; he could leave whenever he wanted.  I was confined to this cell.  "After all this time, my eyes cannot believe to see you.  My ears cannot believe to hear you, that you have been purchased by a Laurens."

"What is your point?" I asked.

"Henry Laurens is a ruthless man, isn't he?  How have you survived?"

"John Laurens is not," I said.  "He is civil."  I finally picked up my head.  "Something you are not."

"You vile sodomite.  Is this to say that the eldest of Henry Laurens is a sodomite as well?"

"No," I said.  "He's not."

"Then why should he take interest in you?  Why should he be civil?"

"You know why.  I am valuable.  I was valuable to you."

"You were never valuable to me.  You were more a burden than a piece of property.  You are evil and sick, sick in the head, your intentions demented and greed consuming."

I didn't respond.  He continued:

"One might say you were 'valuable', but that was up until you betrayed me.  I threw you away like the garbage you were.  Funny you should end up here."

"I never betrayed you.  You deserved every goddamn thing coming to you, Thomas Jefferson.  You're fucking sadistic!"  I stood now, angry.  "You hurt so many and lie.  At least some honest men wear their abuse on their sleeves.  You—you are the worst kind of man.  You are a hypocrite and a liar!"

"And what does that make you, Hamilton?  A fucking saint?  I may have lied, but look where I am, and look at you!  Look at you!  You are there in a cell, about to be beaten for your crimes, as I am here—watching."

"You are watching, because you are sick in the head."

Jefferson laughed softly, then louder.  "'Sick in the head'?  Is that so?"  He laughed even louder.  "I should have thrown you in the asylum the second you talked back!  You're the ill one.  This is black and white."

My hands shook in anger.  "I am not ill!"

I couldn't help myself.  I lunged at him.  He shoved me back.  I landed into the wall, hit my head, and cried out.  I wanted to kill him.  I could do it.  I could fucking kill him.

He slammed the cell door shut, followed by a shout, "Help!"

An officer, different from the first one, came running in, baton in hand.

"He tried to escape!" Jefferson claimed.  "He was going to kill me!"

The officer looked at me, as I slumped on the bench.  

"Him?" he asked, doubtful.  

I wiped my eyes.

"He's a disgusting little cretin!  Of course, him," Jefferson said.  "You better lock this cell.  You know what happens to slaves who attack citizens."

My mouth opened, and before I could help it, I protested.  "No!"

"He would have killed me if I hadn't managed to get the door shut."

"That's not true!" I yelled.

"Quiet, you," the officer said.  I seethed.

"He's lying," I said hopelessly.

"I said be quiet!"

Jefferson only frowned.  "You see?  He's incorrigible and volatile."

I shook my head, standing again.  "How could I have tried to take him?  Look at me!  Just like that woman who the deputy nearly killed!" I walked to the bars, gripped them.  "I'm smaller than he, and regardless I'm no fool!  I would not have tried to kill him!" Although I would have loved to.

The officer stared at me, indifference lacing his eyes.  He grabbed the keys that sat on the desk and locked the door.

"If your department does not take care of this rat, I will take legal actions against you," Jefferson growled.  The officer turned pale almost immediately.

"Of course we'll do something about him, Mr. Jefferson," he said quickly.  "We—we'll have him face capital punishment immediately!  There's no need to sue, Sir."

I rest my forehead against the bars, angrier.  "You can't just do that."

"Should have thought about that before committing crimes and having your citizenship revoked.  As a citizen, you are not entitled to a trial," Jefferson said calmly.  I clenched my jaw.  

"Somebody has to call my master."  I breathed in deeply.  "You cannot execute me without his knowledge."

"You are no longer in his possession if you have run away."

"I didn't run away!" I claimed—I lied—I said.  I knew I could be incriminating myself.  If John says I did run away, I'm as good as dead.

The officer spoke again.  "Then why were you alone without papers?"

I bowed my head, sucked in a shaking breath, afraid I was going to cry again.  I felt the officer bang his hand on the cell.

"Answer me!"

I moved away from the door and sat on the bench, tucked my feet up, and buried my head in my knees.  

• • •

No more than five, maybe ten minutes passed, when the door to the police station swung open, and there was John.  I stood up and went to the bars, eyes wide, heart beating out of my goddamn chest.  I tried to hide the relief on my face but, as far as I could tell, he, too, was relieved.

"Where's the chief?" Laurens asked.  "I'm John Laurens.  I've come to take my slave."

"You can't just bail him out," the officer said.  "He's run away.  That's a capital offense, suited for capital punishment."

"No.  Honestly, who appointed you?  You know nothing of the law.  He is no runaway, and regardless I own him, and thus I am to take him.  Now," he sighed, "unlock the cell."

The officer looked to Jefferson nervously, then stood up and unlocked the cell.  Jefferson was angry.  I exited, coat swung over my arm, and looked up at John.  My stomach dropped, shivers running down my spine.  He should be angry with me.  He should beat me for what I've done.  I did run away, and I did cause trouble for him.

"Mr. Jefferson," Laurens said pointedly, eyes trained on him.  "By whom are we graced with your presence?"

"My own accord.  I caught your stupid runaway."

I clenched my fist.

"He didn't run away," Laurens scoffed.  "I sent him into town to buy me a pastry.  He was only gone for thirty minutes by the time I received a call."

"He has no papers.  That is illegal."

"Papers?  Of course he had papers."

"He was frisked, he had none," Jefferson insisted, gravelly.

John shrugged.  "You didn't search enough.  They were in his coat pocket with the money I sent with him for the pastry, I believe."  

I gave him a look, one that called him crazy.  I had no papers.  This was his coat.  I would not have taken my papers.

John reached his hand out.  I handed the coat to him.  He patted it for a moment before pulling something out of the pocket.  He held up the folded papers, a smirk on his lips.

A weight lifted from my shoulders.

"Papers.  They why didn't he present them?" the officer demanded.

I looked to John.  He nodded.  I said, "Sir, I was never asked to show identification.  I was arrested without being given a reason and told not to speak."

John looked so damn smug.  "It was, then, the fault of the police department.  Why, in the condition he's in, and the trouble you've put me through, I ought to sue you and your entire department.  Hell, I'd go as far as to get you all fired and replaced immediately."

The officer's eyes widened.  "I apologize, Sir.  I will be sure to report to my superior and have him reform the lot of us."

"Was that sarcasm?"

"No, Sir."

John handed the coat and papers back to me.  "I am leaving, now, with my property.  Let's go," he said to me.  As we walked past Jefferson, he said to him, "Was a pleasure to see you again, Sir.  Next time our paths cross, I hope you'll have learned not to chase slaves who aren't your own."

We left the station.  I tried handed John his coat; he must've ran here without one, seeing that he only work his suit jacket.  He wouldn't take it, however, and silently insisted I wear it.  I did.

We walked back in silence.  Painful, painful silence.  I shivered.

It wasn't until we were back at the apartment that he spoke, helping me take off the jacket.

"Are you hurt?" he asked.

It was not what I had expected, but I shook my head.  "No."  It was a lie.  I had been kicked and hit and there was spit in my hair.  Not to mention how afraid I was, how freaked out I was when I saw Jefferson.

"You were limping home.  Come here, Alex.  Let me see."

"I'm fine."

He gave me a look.  He knew I wasn't fine. 

I sighed and walked to the sofa, sat there as he disappeared to grab a first aid kit.  He sat beside me, pulled on the buttons of my shirt.

"I'm sorry," I said suddenly.  I was.  "I shouldn't have left.  I only caused discourse and—"

"Alexander," he said softly.  He sighed.  "Lean back so I can press ice to the bruise on your chest."

I leaned back.  "I shouldn't've ran."

He pressed the ice and I winced.  Then, he said, "You have nothing to be sorry for.  And anyway, I'm not angry at you.  I just... have to ask."

"Ask what?"

"Your former master... will you tell me more about how he treated you?"

I swallowed.  But, I owed this to him after causing so much trouble.  I dug my nails into the sofa cushion.

"Badly," I said, plain and simple.  "He was fine at first, but he was tempered, and... after his wife died, something changed in him.  Our relationship was never," I stopped for a second, then, "it was never sexual," I decided.  "But after her death, he seemed to seek comfort wherever he could.  Not only with me, but more often with other slaves.  I didn't like it," I whispered.  "I was curious at first, but he had no liking nor love for me.  He had no care of whether I lived or died, of whether I wished to please him or not.  I realized that quickly.  That's when I stopped being his business partner and began to be exactly what I was—a slave.  A stupid, useless, fucking bitch."

John grabbed my hand.

"You're not stupid or useless," he said.  "Don't ever say that."

I shook my head.  "I am... I was.  I thought—well, I thought he cared about me.  I..." told him I loved him.  Even though I myself knew it wasn't true at the time, and wasn't true now.  I still told him that.  Why?  "Why am I so fucking stupid?"

"You're not."

"You don't know the half of it."

"Then tell me!" he pleaded.  He set the ice aside.  "Alexander, please!"

"I can't.  I can't talk about him."

"Alex—"

"Please, don't make me talk about him."

John stared at me.  Why is he surprised by this response?

"Why can't you tell me?" he whispered.  He was hurt by this.  Oh, no.

"Because, I—" I was struggling for the words.  I couldn't look him in the eyes.  I always did, but right now I couldn't.  "I can't... differentiate you from him, sometimes.  I have to compartmentalize but you are in the same compartment for many, many reasons, and so when I think about—talk about—everything, about him, I get... I get confused, almost.  I associate memories of him with whatever is happening with you and I can't... I don't want to mix the two.  Ever.  I want them separate."

He squeezed my hand and I felt his head on my shoulder.

"Alexander, I don't want you to ever think that I... could be like him.  I'm not—"

"I know you're not," I interrupted bitterly.

"I just want to... I want to know if you love me as I love you.  I said it and you panicked, and I," he stopped for a second, assumably because I squeezed his hand tighter than I meant to, "—I wanted to go after you, but I understood you needed your space."

I need space right now.  "I can't answer that question."

"So is it a yes?"

I closed my eyes.

"Alex, do you love me?"

"I can't—I can't love you, John.  I can't.  You are unable to love me as well," I mumbled.  "You own me.  There is no physical, scientific way to love a possession.  It's meaningless lust and I just, I cannot allow myself to be a part of it if we lie to ourselves about what it is we are feeling."

"I'm not lying."  Fuck.  He sounded sad again.  "It took me quite a while to tell you.  I thought you'd respond in the same way."

"You thought wrong."

"How could you say that?  What do you mean that we cannot fall in love?  I am in love with you, and I remain unapologetic."  I tried to stand but he wouldn't let go of my hand.  "Where are you going?"

"I cant talk about this."

"You cannot avoid it forever!  You always say that, and every time I respect it.  But right now I demand an answer."

"About what?  About whether or not I love you?"

"You don't have to answer that.  I mean about your former master."

"What more do you want me to say, dammit?!"  I pulled my hand away.  "What, he threw me away like trash?  He hates me?  I gave him my vulnerability and in exchange he called me a worthless cretin and kicked me aside, resold me, risked my death for his own empty anger?  What do you want me to say, John?  What the hell do you want?!"

"Why do you think we cannot love?"

"Because we cannot!  It is very simple.  How do you fail to understand this?  Is your brain too little?  Are you too blind to see?"

"Don't insult me—"

"You insult me by lying to me!"

"I don't lie."

"Am I supposed to believe that?"

He took my hand, squeezed it.  He looked me in the eyes.  "When have I ever lied to you?  Why would I?"

I wanted to punch him.

"You fail to understand..." I mumbled.  "I can't love and I can't tell you the reason why, other than that the relationship... the imbalance, it just doesn't work."

"We can make it work.  I don't treat you unfairly and I never will.  I'll help you escape," he whispered, "if you wish.  Even if I do not... if I do not get the chance to see your face again.  If it makes you happy, then we no longer have to suffer the imbalance."

"How the hell does that help you?  How dare you claim to love me just to threaten to banish me?  How could you possibly love me if you are so willing to let me go?  We no longer spend the moments together.  It's absolutely pointless."

"But you would be happy."

"And you would be sad.  I repeat: pointless."

"Do you want me to get you out of here?" he whispered, hand on my cheek now.  I couldn't look away from him.

I thought for a moment.  "That means nothing.  It only further proof that you do not truly love me, for if you did you would do everything in your power to stay by my side."

"I'm doing everything in my power to make you happy, Alex!  I only want you to be happy."

"I'll never be happy."

He stared at me. "I am beginning to believe that you don't actually want to escape."

I crossed my arms. "You, John Laurens, are incorrigible and ignorant."

He shook his head at me.

"Of course I don't want to escape. What that means for you and what that means for me, in the end, culminates in death or some sort of punishment. It's not the worth the risk. Not only that, but you know you don't want to send me away, and I know I don't want to go somewhere that's not here."

I held my breath for a moment. Ugh, goddamnit.

I leaned into his touch and wrapped my arms around him. I'm so fucking weak. I felt his hand on the back of my head and I thought I might cry. Why have I doomed myself again and again? Why do I know that I'll only continue?

My chest pressed against him and I groaned in pain, moving quickly. He stopped hugging me and went to look at me.

"You're gonna be bruised tomorrow," he whispered.  "You should take a bath.  Your hair is matted."

Before I could stop myself, "Will you take it with me?" I didn't want to be alone.  

"What?" His hand slipped from my shoulder.

"Or be there with me," please, I'm begging you, I don't want to be alone and, "you told me you care about me. I'm trying to trust you. This is a part of that."

He hesitated visibly.  "All right.  I'll help you bathe.  Come on," he whispered, motioning me to the bathroom.  I followed.  I wanted to take his hand.  I didn't.

He turned on the hot water and plugged the tub, then dumped in bubbles and oils and salts.  I sat on the counter, acutely aware of how hot he looked with his sleeves rolled up like that.  I was unsure what about it was hot, exactly.

"John?"

He turned.  "Your bath is almost full, you should get in before it gets cold or too full, as the displacement of water will make it spill."

I beckoned him closer from where I sat on the counter.  He stood between my legs.  I pulled his face closer.  

"I'm sorry," I whispered.

"I already told you—" he began, lowly.

"No.  I'm sorry for pushing you away."  

He relaxed a little.  I pushed away and got off the counter, then began to undo my suspenders so that I could bathe.  He watched me now that I was only in underwear.

"John," I said softly.  

"Yes?"

"You make me shy.  Turn around.  I've told you before, you haven't seen all of my body."

He turned, albeit disappointed.  In his vulnerable state it would be easy to give him what he wants—sex—but I was already extremely tired and, as he said, sore and bruised, and thus I wasn't feeling into it anyway.  I wanted to lay there, clean from my bath, and feel his arms brace me.  I wanted to feel the hair on his arms brush against my chest and shoulders so that I may bury my nose against it, then beckon him closer until his arms were on my back and I was pressed into his chest.  I wanted to feel his breath.

I stepped into the tub.  The water was hot, a nice change from the freezing cell and the freezing outdoors.  I saw that the bubbles made an opaque film over the top of the water, hiding what was submerged of me.  Perhaps John had thought about that.

"Will you wash my hair?" I asked him. "You may turn back around, now."

"I'll wash it," he mumbled.  "Is it too hot?"

"No.  Thank you."  I shifted and sat up a bit so he could actually get to my hair.  He had grabbed a bowl from the bathroom counter.  I slid down to dip my head back in the water, a hissing sound of pleasure escaping my lips unwarranted.

When I came up again, I sighed and stared at the wall.  "I'm angry."

"Why is that?" he asked, hand already tangling in my hair with soap.

"The Officer... he spit on me," I admitted.  I was partially afraid of Laurens' reaction.

"That's disgusting," is all he muttered.  

His fingers felt therapeutic against my scalp.  "He also kicked me and frisked me, hit me.  They said they were going to have me whipped in the morning, but then," Jefferson upset me and I had tried to attack him, and he convinced them to put me to death instead.

"Then what?"

"I..."

He stopped massaging the soap into my hair.  "Alexander?"

"But then I said something and Jefferson claimed I had tried to escape the cell; attempted to kill him; and he threatened to sue, and the officer said he'd have me face capital punishment come morning.  Even without trial, without anything, just because Jefferson lied.  They could have done it.  Nobody would have ever known as long as that didn't legally report it.  Happens all the time..."

I felt him pull my hair so that I tipped my head back, and he poured water over my head.  He did that a few times.  I sensed a bit of roughness in the swift way his hands moved.

"Are you upset at me?" I asked.

"No."

"You don't sound pleased."

"What did you say to Jefferson that angered him so?"

"Nothing," I lied.  I knew he wouldn't take that for an answer so I quickly changed it.  "I don't even remember at this point.  Regardless, it was nothing to warrant lying to get me executed!  How are you angry at me?"

"I already told you, I'm not upset."  He pushed my head back up and I snapped it around, twisting my body to face him.

"John," I said. 

"I'm angry because you could have been dead," he nearly growled, "and they never would have told me.  I'm lucky the chief called me in.  Why did they even bruise you up, huh?  It should have been simple."

"I wouldn't tell them your name—"

"Why not?!"

"I—I couldn't, Jefferson was there; I was afraid of what he might do!"

Realization paled his cheeks.  He let go of my hair.  "Jefferson was your former master."

I didn't want to answer, but realized my only three options landed me in the same place: lie, but John already knows and he'd be mad I'd lied; remain silent, which is basically the same as an answer; or confirm it.

"Yes," I said at last.

He looked furious.  "That—that son of a bitch!  He raped you?"

"It wasn't rape, I—"

"Did you want it?"

"No! Of course not, John—"

"Then it was rape!"

"Please, just calm down."

"I swear, I'm going to kill him.  I have a meeting with him on Monday!"

"John, please, don't you utter a word."

"I'll tear his fucking guts out!"

"John!" I shouted at last, grabbing his shoulder.  I was aware that my hand got the cotton wet.  "Please, stop.  Please."

"Why?  Why should I?"

"Because, you—you're," scaring, "worrying me."

He seethed, very visibly so, and rubbed his wet hands through his hair.  I sunk back into the tub and submerged my entire head.

After I felt my breath truly, truly depleting, I rose again out of the water and wiped my face, only to see John was no longer in the bathroom.

Maybe I died.

He entered again with a couple of towels, which he placed on the counter then knelt again beside the tub.  He cupped the side of my face and brought our lips together, although mine were still wet.  He didn't care.  I half-thought that he might fall into the tub with me by the way he was leaning over, the kiss becoming more intense.  I eventually broke away, lips opening.

I stopped before I could say something I would regret, then relaxed again in the hot water.

"I'm sorry," he said, "for getting so angry a moment ago.  I shouldn't have worried you."

"It's all right."

"May I finish washing your hair?"

"Please," I mumbled, a smile forming on my lips.  I leaned forward a bit so he could continue washing it.  I grabbed the rag nearby and drenched it so that I could wash my body.

I felt grungy.  I was relieved to clean up.

I felt John take my hand underwater, where I held the rag.  He brought it up, kissing my knuckles, then took the rag so that he may wash my back and shoulders.  "Don't strain yourself," he had whispered.

Then, "If you don't mind, can you tell me what else happened?  I promise I won't get angry again."

I sighed.  His hand felt so good on me, washing my skin.  I thought about what happened.  "Jefferson said things to me first that made me lunge at him."

John seemed surprised.  "So you did attack him."

"I didn't land a damn hit, and if I had, it wouldn't have done much!  He had the whole damn police force on his side, not to mention height."

"I'm proud.  It was stupid, but I am proud." 

I shifted.  "I could only wish you were there.  There was this woman in my cell with me who had been crying.  It was obnoxious, but when the chief came to interrogate me, she went for him, and he pushed her—" I felt my breath hitch.  "She was a small thing, couldn't haven't been much older than I and certainly smaller than me.  I didn't see her bleeding until I myself was on the ground.  I begged them to help her.  They said they'd let her die."  I shook my head.  "Said it was all right, that she was only a whore.  I supposed that had you been there, you could assess her state and help her medically.  I only wrapped fabric around her head to stop her bleeding and kept her as awake as she could be."

"They were going to kill her?  Did she get help?"

"He took her away.  I hope so.  I truly hope so."

John sighed.  I could tell he had wanted to be angry.

"I'm sure she's fine."  I wasn't sure. 

"Are you all right?  After all that?  I'm so sorry."

"I'm fine."

We sat in silence for a moment.  I sighed.

"One thing I didn't ask is how you managed to find my papers in your coat, when I know for a fact they weren't in there."

John wrung out the cloth and hung it up.  "I put them in my sleeve, so when I searched the jacket I slid them out and pretended to find them."

I laughed.  "You are a genius, I love it."

He shook his head.  "No, I don't think so.  Are you almost done in there, by the way?"  

I leaned back.  "My fingers have begun to prune."

"Yes?"

"Yes.  If you go on to bed, I'll join you in a minute."

He nodded and got off the floor.  

• • •

John was wearing only underwear when I returned to the room, a towel in my hair and one around my waist.  I held the brush in my hand.

"Would you mind brushing it for me?" I asked.  "I'm just... very tired, and I'd like to close my eyes for a moment and feel you brushing it."

John patted the spot in front of him on the bed.  I took the towel from my hair and sat.

He was so gentle.  

"I cannot believe you could ever mix me up with Jefferson in your head.  He's ugly," John said suddenly.  I felt him pulling at the strands of my hair.

"Are you braiding my hair?"

"Oh—" he paused.  "Sorry.  It was impulse."

"No, It's all right.  Keep on."

"I braid my sister's hair often, so after brushing it my hands went rogue."  I felt him lean away, then go back.  He tied a ribbon in my hair.

I turned around and kissed him.  Then, "You're right, John.  Jefferson is indeed ugly."

"Then how could you mix us?  How am I like him?"

"You're not.  That's why I want it to stay that way.  Get the lights, will you?"

He reluctantly pulled away to turn off the lights.  I pulled the towel off and tossed it to the ground, crawling under the blankets without caring that I was naked.  When John returned, he didn't seem to care, either.  He got under them with me and I felt his arms wrapping around my back and shoulders, my nose against his chest just as I had hoped for earlier.

• • •

I woke up to John beside me, as expected, but his hand on my hip, dangerously close to where I was hard and pressed against his leg.  He had his forehead pressed into my collarbone, so he couldn't see my eyes open. 

I reached my hand over his, pulling it closer to my erection.  He seemed slightly startled but did as I implied and wrapped his hand around my member.

He kissed my neck.  I closed my eyes again and reached my arm over to his, to squeeze the hard muscle of his bicep, to moan his name softly.  I wanted to curl up in embarrassment but he was so warm, so sweet, that I only wanted to lean into him more.

I wanted this to last forever.

It must've been well into the morning, as we certainly went to bed late last night (I'm sure it was nearly three in the morning).  The sun peeked through the curtains and was warm on my cheek.  Or maybe my cheek was just warm because I was getting pleasured by John.

I twisted and pulled my body closer, hid my body in his.  He held me, but didn't stop touching me.  It was so sensual, so slow and rapid at the same time, that I felt tears fall from the corners of my eyes.  I felt my throat tighten and a pit in my stomach.  He didn't stop.

I tried hiding my face, close as I could.  I needed him.  I couldn't live without him.  Oh, my god, I'm weak, so fucking weak, free-falling and crying because it all felt so good and I was so stupid for falling in love with him.  

These two weeks would end, we'd go back to South Carolina, and I'd never feel this way again.  I'd never be isolated like I wanted to be with him.  There would always be other people, and his father, and his siblings who visited, and the fact that I was a slave there while here I was his lover and partner and oh, my God, this felt so fucking amazing.  I felt my breath hitched and thought I might be sobbing if I wasn't moaning.

"John," I begged him, though it was against my nature, though it was in spite of myself and everything I stood for, though I ran away last night because this is exactly what I was afraid of.  "John—hhg, J..."

What a joke, a fucking joke, I ran away last night because I didn't want to be in love, and a day later, here I was.

I'm stupid.  I'll have to live with that.  I'll always have to live with it, with the fact that I can't hold my tongue.

But he's right.  He's not Jefferson.  

"Don't—don't stop, J, I love you," I gasped out.  I can never shut up.  "I love you."  Why had I said it again?  Tears poured from my eyes at an astounding rate.  "Please keep going, I love you, I love you, oh, my God—"

I'm so fucking stupid.  Why did I have to say that?

He kissed my head, hand moving faster.  "I love you too," he mumbled.

I hummed and writhed, crying, fucking begging.  How long had I truly wanted this?  Too long.  Too long had I wished to feel his touch.

I wanted this forever and ever.  I surprised myself with my words and they had come out before I knew I said them.  I'm doomed.  But that was all right, because even after I came, even after he pulled me inhumanly close and breathed on my neck and kissed me and rubbed my body all over, I couldn't force myself to regret what I had said.

I was relieved.


End file.
